Save the Best for Last

by Bettye Griffin

  His eyes flew open. He shielded them from the strong morning sunlight that flooded his attic bedroom through the blinds he always forgot to close. He couldn’t get the dream out of his mind. How could that be? Ever since he’d begun his next to last semester he’d been having the same snippet of a dream at least once a week, and each time it happened he couldn’t get a clear view of the one person he didn’t recognize. But just now he saw the face, and it looked like Gen, the woman he’d just met.

  He blew out his breath. Again he thought it didn’t make sense. How could he be dreaming about a woman he’d spoken to only once? A woman whom he’d horrified with his embarrassing lack of decorum and who clearly was uncomfortable being around him, at least at first.

  Dexter had learned long ago that there was no sense crying over the proverbial spilled milk, that there was no way to snap his fingers and have the milk magically return to the container. He hadn’t closed the bathroom door, and that was that. All he could do after his frat-boy behavior was try to put Gen at ease, and he believed he succeeded. That wasn’t the only reason for his questions. He genuinely wanted to know about her, for his own purposes. She was fine, and he had few opportunities to shoot the breeze with a woman who looked as good as Gen. Most of the sisters in town simply brushed him off because he didn’t wear a suit and tie, but Gen seemed shocked only by what she’d stumbled on to. Once they started talking she listened to his plans with an interest that seemed genuine. Dexter found that refreshing, and he looked forward to seeing her again.

  He stretched lazily, recalling her physical attributes. She’d been fairly well covered between her Capri pants and boat neck blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves, but the hem of her blouse was high enough where he’d been able to glimpse a taut abdomen and the flare that blended her waist into round, full hips. Her sun-kissed golden brown skin had no marks or blemishes. And that dark brown hair, loosely pulled back into a wavy mass that just kind of sat there at the back of her head, too short to hang down in a pony tail. Her hair would probably be as untamed as his if she wore it loose.

  The way she interacted with him suggested she was as pretty on the inside as she was on the outside. Dexter had grudgingly accepted that he wouldn’t get to enjoy much romantic success until after he’d begun his career, even though he didn’t like it much. Gen was a lovely reminder of all that he’d been missing.

  Right now his number one priority was completing his last semester of school, and that meant he had no money to invest in clothes or even a decent haircut. He’d actually been considering making a transfer to a less costly school. Hell, he probably had enough money now to complete his last semester at the Queens College School of Law. But he didn’t want his diploma to say Queens College School of Law, especially if he’d only done his final semester there.

  The question was, how would he raise the rest of the money he needed? Between his two jobs, he was already putting in nearly seventy hours a week, and he still had nowhere near the amount he needed.

  He rolled over and shielded his eyes with the second pillow, blocking out the sun from his closed lids. He was home with his beloved grandparents and he’d had a great meal. What he needed now was rest. Trying to analyze the significance of seeing Gen’s pretty face in a dream was simply a waste of energy that was better applied toward his real problem.

  Chapter 6

  Within one week after Barry declared his feelings for her, Genevieve had transformed into a five-foot-seven-inch, hundred-and-thirty-five-pound mass of nerves, for she’d decided she couldn’t go through with marrying him. Knowing how he felt about her and that she could never return his feelings only made her feel sad and empty inside. She couldn’t bear to think of Barry going through life unfulfilled, of pleading, as Lauryn Hill had in her song Ex-Factor, just who he had to be to get some reciprocity; or wondering, as Linda Ronstadt had in a rock song older than Genevieve, when he would finally be loved.

  Now she understood why he’d said nothing about limiting the length of their relationship, and why he looked forward to it, but a marriage between them simply wouldn’t be fair to him. Barry would hate her before it was over, and being married to two women who didn’t love him would probably leave him with a bitterness he’d never shake. She didn’t want to get sent back, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that to him, either. He deserved better.

  Genevieve didn’t understand her lack of ardor for Barry. He represented everything many single women were looking for, having had attained success and wealth while keeping himself reasonably fit. He didn’t have movie-star good looks, and his forehead was expanding—hence the close-cut hair—but he wasn’t unpleasant to look at by any means. Genevieve knew that every fortyish man couldn’t have the good looks of a Morris Chestnut. Barry was also a little old for her, but forty-one wasn’t as distant as, say, sixty-one. He’d been, and still was, willing to marry her, for heaven’s sake, even though she confessed to not loving him. He was probably prepared to shower her with displays of affection as part of his plan to strengthen her feelings toward him and make her feel completely cherished. So why wasn’t she jumping all over him?

  Ultimately, Genevieve decided there was no point trying to figure out the reason. Love was friendship that caught fire, and no sparks flew between her and Barry, at least on her part. In her heart she knew nothing would ever change that.

  What she needed to do was find someone with whom she had no emotional connection who would be willing to stay married to her long enough to satisfy the INS, an arrangement that wouldn’t involve living under the same roof.

  Even as she wished for such conditions, she knew it was just a pipe dream. She couldn’t possibly approach a stranger with such a bizarre request. It would certainly have to involve money changing hands, enough to compensate for a three-year chunk of a man’s life. Financial matters were just as tricky as emotional ones.

  She might not see a way out now, but no question about it. She’d have to find another way to stay in the U.S.

  But how?

  In her anxiety over trying to find a solution to her residency problem, which in itself seemed impossible, Genevieve found herself consumed with the growing fear that the INS had somehow seen through her postcard to the super and were continuing to try to track her down even while she was supposed to be on the West Coast. She knew it was irrational, but regardless she couldn’t rid herself of the fear that Immigration representatives were waiting for her around every corner. She held her breath whenever she had to visit a client’s office, afraid that she would be apprehended there. She couldn’t walk the block from the Smith’s brownstone to the subway without looking over her shoulder. The imagined sensation of someone’s presence behind her made her hands shake when she unlocked the heavy oak door of the brownstone. Sometimes she even dropped her keys. The people at the ad agency she did quite a bit of work for were a young, friendly, social bunch and often invited her to join them on their various outings, but she refused all invitations and instead holed up in her room, often choosing to go without rather than venturing out to pick up the things she wanted. Her room was the only place where she felt safe...and sometimes she imagined she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Sleep brought no respite. Her dreams were haunted by visions of INS agents confronting her, of being put on a plane back to the land where she’d been born. She could practically feel bullets tearing apart her flesh.

  As the weeks passed, fear of capture began to take a toll on her physical as well as emotional health. One Friday afternoon she had to go downtown to meet with a client, and on the return subway ride she noticed a middle-aged man moving through the crowded car, toward where she stood. Her palm, trying to grasp the pole, grew clammy, and it became hard to breathe, as if her nasal massages had become blocked. She tried to breathe through her mouth, only to discover that her trachea seemed to be closing off as well. She watched with increasing terror as the man moved closer and closer, suddenly gasping for air as other riders stared at her c
uriously.

  In the end the man passed her and went into the next car, but it was a good ten minutes before the terror of the episode passed and she could breathe normally.

  Genevieve had been home about an hour when Barry called. “I’m still at the office,” he informed her. That in itself wasn’t unusual; Barry typically worked long hours. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get away to have lunch with you while you were here in midtown,” he said apologetically. “How’d your meeting go?”

  A sob she couldn’t control slipped out.

  “Gen! What’s wrong?”

  She took a moment to compose herself. “On the way home, I saw a man on the subway approaching me. It turned out he was just going to the car ahead, but I thought he was coming for me. I got so upset I actually couldn’t breathe.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Barry.”

  “I do. I’ve sensed a change in you these last weeks, Gen. You don’t feel safe anymore, and you’re becoming irrational and paranoid. I think you might have had a panic attack on the subway.” Barry muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “And it all started when my divorce got pushed back.”

  Genevieve blew her nose. “All I know is I don't know how much more I can take of this,” she said between sobs. “I’m so nervous all the time. I actually thought I might pass out from lack of air.”

  “Try to relax, Gen. The chance of INS finding you in Harlem is miniscule. This is the favorite settling spot for illegals from Africa and the Caribbean. Besides, the INS thinks you’re in California.”

  “But if they were able to track me through my father’s business they’ll be able to check the records, identify my clients, and find me in midtown. Can you imagine how humiliating it would be, being handcuffed at the offices of one of my clients?” She sniffled. “Not that I’d ever see any of them again.”

  “Listen to me, Gen. I’m going to be here for a little while yet. Why don’t you come down to my office? We’ll get some dinner, and you can stay with me tonight.”

  “Stay with you?” Her voice was low with suspicion.

  “I don’t think you should be alone tonight. This whole idea of you hiding out in Harlem—well, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. You’re probably feeling claustrophobic living in that one room, and I’m afraid it’s aggravating your paranoid thoughts.” He paused, as if sensing her reluctance. “I’ve got plenty of space. You can stay in the guest room. I promise not to come in unless I’m invited.”

  For a moment Genevieve actually considered it. She felt so alone. But her conscience quickly took over. She couldn’t stay under the same roof as Barry, even one as spacious as his Williamsburg loft, and keep her distance, not feeling as lonely as she did. Besides, Barry was under the impression that she still planned to marry him, but she knew she couldn’t do it. In spite of her fears of being taken into custody, she didn’t want a marriage without love. She wanted to have what her parents had, to marry for love and for life.

  It gave Genevieve a small sense of comfort to know that her parents were together again. She hoped they couldn’t see her now, couldn’t know what she was about to do. Even though she knew they would understand she had no choice, they would probably feel as uncomfortable with the idea of a loveless marriage as she did.

  “No,” she said into the receiver. “I can’t, Barry. I’ll stay here. It was just a weak moment, but I’ll be all right.”

  “Gen, look at yourself. You’ve become afraid of your own shadow. I know you’re worried, but—”

  “It’s more than that, Barry.” It was time to tell him what she’d decided. “I can’t marry you.”

  “What do you mean? Why can’t you marry me?”

  “Because you’re in love with me and I’m not in love with you. It wouldn’t be fair to you, Barry.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Gen, and you shouldn’t worry either. Besides, if you don’t marry me, how do you plan on staying in the U.S.?”

  “Maybe it’s not meant for me to stay here,” she said over the lump in her throat.

  “You’re being foolish, Gen.” Someone in the background spoke to him, and he made a joyful shout that nearly startled her into dropping the receiver. “Sorry about that,” he apologized in a normal voice. “But I just scored a coup. You know that civilian who ran into a burning building and got three kids out just in the nick of time, getting himself badly burned when part of the ceiling collapsed on him?”

  “Of course. It’s been all over the news. I’m glad he’s doing better, but I was sorry to hear that he’s doing his first interview with Channel Six instead of your station.” The network that rivaled Barry’s for the highest national news ratings had been running promo all week about the upcoming interview with the stable but still hospitalized hero. Most recently they announced that the interview originally scheduled for last night had been postponed until the following Monday.

  “No need for regrets. We just got him to change his mind. He’s moving to our station. That announcement Channel Six made about the interview being postponed a few days on the advice of his doctors...that was just an excuse. We’d already talked to him, and he wanted time to think about it.” Barry let out a satisfied sigh. “Just picture it. Him sitting up in his hospital bed, covered with bandages, talking about how he rushed in with no regard for his own safety and suffered third degree burns. There won’t be a dry eye anywhere. It’s going to be a ratings blockbuster.”

  “That’s marvelous, Barry, but however did you manage to lure him away from Channel Six?”

  “Tricks of the trade, my dear,” he said smugly. “You know what they say. If I told you my secret, I’d have to kill you.”

  She laughed, grateful for the interruption to a more lighthearted subject. “All I can say is, I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  “I must say I make a great friend,” he agreed. “And there are a few unfortunate people who know that I can be a merciless enemy. But as I was saying, don’t worry about anything, Gen. You and I are going to have a great life together. Just try to think nice thoughts ...like what you want to name our children.”

  Genevieve swallowed the lump in her throat with a gulp. Children?

  After she hung up she wandered over to one of her bedroom windows and looked out. The Smiths were enjoying a family evening on their deck with their son and daughter plus another young lady who was either a friend of their daughter’s or their son’s date. Genevieve watched as Stan Smith gave his son pointers on how to flip the meat, and when Brenda approached and handed him a bottle of sauce Stan grabbed her and did a few impromptu dance steps to the music coming from the boom box, as their children applauded.

  The happy domestic scene only made Genevieve feel dejected. She imagined herself after being married to Barry for twenty years. By then she would have probably lost all enthusiasm for life and would cling to her offspring, her only true rewards after two decades of an unfulfilling marriage.

  It wasn’t a comforting thought, and she knew that no matter what happened to her, she couldn’t go through with it.

  Strains of the instrumental jazz CD playing in the Smith’s boom box below made their way through the glass of the window. Genevieve couldn’t smell the meat cooking, but she’d glimpsed the thick steaks on the grill, and the thought was sufficient to make her want to eat something herself. She decided to walk over to one of the neighborhood restaurants and order some take-out. Surely no one would be looking for her on a Friday night. Getting out into the pulse of the neighborhood might even do her good, maybe help her conquer her illogical fears. Barry was right about one thing. She shouldn’t be alone. She needed to be around people, even if she wasn’t actually with anyone.

  Genevieve grabbed her hairbrush and opened her bedroom door to go freshen up. She’d barely closed the door behind her when Dexter rushed out of his room on the opposite side of the hall, coming to a dead halt when it appeared they both had the same destination.

  “Hi,” she said, clearly glad to see
her neighbor. She didn’t see him often, but when she did it was always fun. The awkwardness of their first encounter had been quickly forgotten as they formed a neighborly friendship. He had a quick wit, and always shared amusing anecdotes about his work in the medical examiner’s office. Unfortunately, he was usually in a hurry to get somewhere, so their encounters were as brief as they were enjoyable.

  “Hi there. Uh...are we both headed for the same place?”

  “I think so. But I’m not in a hurry, so you go ahead.”

  “Neither was I. For a change,” he added with a smile. “I’ve got the night off from the lab. I was just going to take a quick shower before heading out to get some dinner.”

  “That’s a coincidence. I was going to pick up something to eat myself.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated for a moment. “Well, if you don’t have any other plans, I’d love some company,” he suggested.

  Genevieve visibly brightened at the prospect of having a dinner companion. “I’d love to join you.” Then she glanced down at her neat but casual attire. “Do I need to change?”

  “Nah. You look fine. I wasn’t going anywhere fancy. I’m only getting cleaned up because of, you know, where I work.”

  Genevieve inadvertently wrinkled her nose. She’d forgotten Dexter spent his days around dead bodies.

  “I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.”

  “Okay. You’re sure I’m all right as I am?” She wore the tan Capris and sleeveless V-neck tan ribbed sweater she’d put on after her morning shower.

  He lazily surveyed her body, and as his lips eased into a smile Genevieve suddenly began to feel self-conscious...as if she was standing before him nude. She knew she should excuse herself, but she felt rooted to the spot by some invisible force.